Bahorel, 1832

Bahorel was dead.

In the Corinthe, Enjolras clasped Combeferre's hand tightly.

Bahorel was dead, and Enjolras was not surprised. This was Bahorel. Always the first into any fight, whether at a barricade or a brawl.

They all should have expected such an outcome. They did expect it. But expectation did not blunt the edge of grief. Enjolras could see it in the drawn face of Courfeyrac, could hear it in the forced wit of Bossuet. They expected it but somehow thought it would never come. Surely, of all of them, Bahorel was too vivid to ever be snuffed out. He had been throwing himself into danger for more than ten years-but one did not become impervious to death through prolonged exposure.

Enjolras raised his face to the ceiling, as if he would find answers or solace there, but the only solace came from the returning pressure of Combeferre's hand. Bahorel was singular. He followed Enjolras faithfully, when following was necessary. Otherwise, though, Bahorel treated Enjolras with all the disdainful affection of an elder brother for a younger one. There was a comfort in the way Bahorel would unceremoniously rumple Enjolras's hair or pull him into a bearish embrace, in the rough good humor that always shone through his smile.

Enjolras had seen good citizens die on the barricades of 1830 and in various émeutes, but none of the dearest to him amongst Les Amis de l'ABC.

He felt Combeferre's hand slide out of his, and press his shoulder.

Bahorel would kick him for being morose. Enjolras raised his chin, and began taking a roll call, to see who was killed or wounded or taken.

Bahorel, 1825

"Do you want to stop and rest?" Enjolras asked a red-faced, sweating Combeferre, an hour into their practice boxing session.

"No," said Combeferre, breathing hard, "I can keep going."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "There is no shame in resting, should you need to."

Combeferre glowered at him, and Enjolras suppressed a smile. Combeferre's thirst for learning was great enough to encompass activities he did not find pleasurable, which was why he had asked Enjolras to teach him to fight. Enjolras loved Combeferre for innumerable reasons, but admired him most for that rare courage, that staunch insistence on seeking out what he did not know, no matter how discomfiting it was.

"I can keep going, Enjolras." Combeferre flung a semi-competent kick at him. It showed improvement from the way he had kicked at the start, but...all the same, it was rather endearing.

Enjolras demonstrated the proper form again. As Combeferre repeated the movement, Enjolras could not help noticing, out of the corner of his eye, two other men fighting in another corner of the club. They were particularly energetic and skilled-that much was obvious, even from Enjolras's vantage point.

Enjolras was distracted enough by the sight of the other men that Combeferre actually landed a blow on his ear. "My apologies," Combeferre said, looking a bit smug. Enjolras drew his attention back to their practicing. They kicked and blocked for another hour, losing track of the time, before deciding to halt.

When he and Combeferre finished, Enjolras looked up to see the two men who had been fighting so ferociously in the other part of the club. They were both large and dark-haired. One had a wide grin and a nose that obviously had been broken at least once. The other had a ruddy complexion and a slightly melancholy air.

"My name is Bahorel," said the grinning man, to a panting Combeferre, "and if I may say so, you're doing much better. Your first time, hmm?"

"Yes," said Combeferre with a wry twist to his mouth. "As I am sure is obvious."

Bahorel's grin grew even wider, if that was possible. "Don't worry about that! I looked an utter fool the first time I tried boxing. Tripped over my opponent's foot and nearly fell on my face. No, my friend, compared to most you looked as graceful as a swan. And you'll keep improving, never fear..." Studying Bahorel as he kept speaking, Enjolras felt sure the other man's first time boxing occurred when Bahorel was no more than eight years old. But Bahorel was tactfully silent on that point.

Enjolras immediately liked him for that. Combeferre, with his mighty intellect, was unused to any difficulties in learning a new skill. While that would never deter him, it might bruise his feelings. It was good of Bahorel to offer encouragement. Enjolras smiled at him in quiet thanks.

The ruddy-faced man was looking oddly at Enjolras. "I am Enjolras, and my friend is Combeferre," he said, extending his hand to the other man. "And your name, citizen?"

"Grantaire," the man said, taking Enjolras's hand uncertainly.

Bahorel turned to look at his companion. "Are you well, Grantaire, or did I show too little mercy in thrashing you? You look positively dazed, my dear fellow."

Grantaire forced a smile. "I will not admit defeat or weakness, but I confess I feel a bit wobbly. Perhaps it is simply that I have not eaten yet." He turned back to Enjolras and Combeferre. "You are students?"

"Yes," Combeferre said. "I study medicine, and Enjolras studies law."

"I also study law," Bahorel said, "in a manner of speaking."

"What manner is that?" Enjolras asked, amused.

"I have been studying for eight years, and have yet to either pass the bar or attend more than thirty classes since I began my studies," Bahorel said with a twinkle. "I have more pressing matters to occupy myself with."

"I am an art student," Grantaire said, "also in a manner of speaking, though my pressing matters are more beautiful than Bahorel's, I think."

"That," Bahorel said cheerily, "is a matter of opinion."

They all went to a café afterwards and, after some careful probing to ascertain the political views of Combeferre and Enjolras, Bahorel revealed his own. His politics were sympathetic, his rhetoric both fiery and amusing, and his passion infectious.

"I am a true republican in all respects," he had said. "I have a proper social contract with my mistress, in which neither of us dictates, or is dictated to-why give old Charles X powers that I will not give to the woman I love? He is surely not as pleasing or amiable."

"And you, Grantaire?" Combeferre asked, probably out of caution-they were all freely discussing politics, and yet Grantaire had remained silent the whole time, his eyes on his wineglass. Surely Bahorel would not speak so openly before Grantaire if the other man were untrustworthy, but Combeferre would want to question Grantaire himself. "What are your opinions?"

"I have none," Grantaire said, blithely. "I believe in a full glass, but nothing beyond that." Combeferre exchanged a glance with Enjolras, who could not help feeling...disappointed, somehow. Surely a man who had fought Bahorel with such vigor was capable of more than apathy?

"I have tried and failed to inspire Grantaire with political conviction," said Bahorel with his characteristic smile, "but he makes an excellent drinking companion."

Bahorel was already a veteran in the cause that Combeferre and Enjolras were just beginning to fight for rather than simply speak of. They had been working steadily with a handful of other students of their acquaintance, distributing pamphlets and discussing laws and meeting with sympathizers. But Bahorel was older than they, and had done more, although he was cautiously vague about what exactly his involvement was, and absolutely silent as to with whom he was involved. That was all to the good: it would not benefit Enjolras or Combeferre, or their friends, to have any ties with Bahorel if he were indiscreet. But he was nothing of the sort, and there was clearly much to learn from him. Enjolras could see from a glance at Combeferre that his friend was even more eager for Bahorel's knowledge than Enjolras himself-and, perhaps, Bahorel could introduce them to other circles of like minds.

That proved to be the case, but only after Bahorel made his own unique sort of preliminary investigations.

It was late in the evening, two weeks after Bahorel first met them. Enjolras and Combeferre both had lectures to attend the next morning. So, in theory, did Bahorel, but he thought lectures were for other people with duller lives, and he invited Enjolras and Combeferre to join him for a meal at one of his favorite haunts. They were both too curious to know Bahorel better to decline.

The evening was pleasant enough until Bahorel overheard another patron express the opinion that the Anti-Sacrilege Act was too soft on blasphemers.

Bahorel called out a response that was eloquent, incisive, and blisteringly profane.

The pious patron came over, shouted some invectives about Bahorel's sexual predilections and his mother's chastity, and then took a drunken swing at Bahorel himself.

Combeferre, who was sitting next to Bahorel, lunged forward, caught their pious attacker's wrist, and tugged hard downwards on his arm. Unfortunately Combeferre did not know what to do next. The anti-blasphemer took advantage of Combeferre's hesitation and punched him. Combeferre blocked the punch so it glanced off his shoulder instead of smashing into his jaw, but the blow still sent him reeling backwards.

Enjolras grabbed Combeferre and steadied him, while Bahorel pounced on the attacker-and the attacker's gang of friends, who had decided to come to his aid. Enjolras counted ten...no, eleven. Most were drunk, but all were large.

The situation did not look promising.

Enjolras jumped into the fray, pulling one man away from Bahorel and throwing him to the ground. He turned back to the next attacker, punching him in the throat. In his side vision, he saw Combeferre charging in, a large table lifted up in his hands. Four of the gang fell away from Bahorel as Combeferre blocked them with the table.

Bahorel, for his part, had picked up a chair and was swinging it around merrily, keeping five men at bay. But how long would that last?

Enjolras and Combeferre looked at each other briefly, and came to a joint wordless decision that, in this particular circumstance, discretion was the better part of valor. Combeferre shoved the table he was still holding up into the faces of the four men he had been fending off. Enjolras brought down the rather vicious man he was fighting, kicking him in the head, and then rushed over to Combeferre's side to deal with one of the four who had risen again and was very angry at having his nose bloodied by a table leg.

Once that was accomplished, Enjolras and Combeferre each seized one of Bahorel's arms, pushed through a gap between his opponents, and made for the door, Enjolras pausing only briefly to stuff some money into the hands of the proprietor, who was lounging idly against the wall and watching the fight with detached curiosity.

They ran out onto the street and kept running until they reached an alley some distance away, where they paused to regain their breath. Enjolras regarded his companions. Combeferre looked calm and collected, as usual. Bahorel, of course, was grinning.

"Do you think..." Combeferre began, laying a hand on Enjolras's arm. He looked at Enjolras very eloquently. Only Combeferre could communicate so much with a look. Sometimes Enjolras forgot they had known each other only a year.

"If I understand you correctly," Enjolras said, "then I think you are right."

Bahorel eyed them curiously. Enjolras decided to be frank. "Bahorel, you arranged that disturbance, did you not?"

Bahorel merely raised his eyebrows in response.

"That very Catholic man, and the defenders who came to his aid," Combeferre pressed, "they were your friends, or are we mistaken? You wanted to test our...abilities, I suppose."

"No," Bahorel said, giving up all pretense. "Not your abilities. I already know Enjolras knows how to throw a punch, and you..."

"Do not," finished Combeferre with a slight smile.

"And you are learning," Bahorel corrected. "I don't care about your abilities. I care about your spirit. Will you enter a fight where you are vastly outnumbered, a fight that need not concern you at all, in order to defend a friend of only two weeks' acquaintance? A friend who picked the fight himself out of his own bad temper? I could have kept my mouth shut, after all, instead of rising to the bait of a stranger's political rant. You would have been justified in letting me lie in the grave I dug for myself. But I had to know, would you come to my aid anyway? If your answer to this question was 'no,' then I would still drink and laugh with you. But since it was 'yes'..."

"What?" Enjolras asked. He had a sudden flash of the feeling he had experienced only once or twice before, the certainty that he was on the verge of something unspecified but wonderful. "Since it was 'yes,' what?"

This time, Bahorel's grin was ferocious. "Since it was 'yes,'" Bahorel said, "I have some friends I would like you to meet."